


Easy A

by draculard



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bad grades, Dubious Consent, F/F, Oral Sex, Power Imbalance, Semi-Public Sex, Smut in chapter Two, Teacher-Student Relationship, inappropriate use of wands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:42:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23727775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: Hermione would do anything to get her grades up.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Minerva McGonagall
Comments: 18
Kudos: 171





	1. Chapter 1

“Simply unacceptable, Miss Granger.”

Those words turned Hermione’s entire body cold; she stood before McGonagall’s desk, her knees shaking beneath her robes, her face burning scarlet. Across from her, McGonagall held Hermione’s latest essay in her hands.

It was unfathomable to Hermione that the essay could possibly be unacceptable. She’d worked on it with no less diligence than all her other papers; she’d cross-referenced every fact not just in their assigned Transfiguration textbook, but also in two different tomes from the library. 

But above McGonagall’s glasses, her eyes were glinting with disapproval, and her mouth was a tight, severe line.

“I’ve come to expect better from you, Miss Granger,” she said. Simultaneously, she dragged her quill across the parchment, leaving a large black D that Hermione could see from where she stood.

“Professor…” Hermione started. Her voice was small and wavering; she swallowed back the lump in her throat and tried again. “Professor, please. What did I do wrong?”

One of McGonagall’s eyebrows shot up, a sure sign that Hermione’s question was a mistake.

“If you need me to tell you,” said McGonagally dryly, “you’re not half the student I thought you were.”

She made a dismissive gesture with her quill and bowed her head over the stack of parchment before her, obviously intending for Hermione to leave. But there was no possible way Hermione could leave now  — not when she’d just received her first D ever, and she didn’t even know why. Standing there, her eyes threatening to spill over, Hermione tried to figure out what to do and what could have possibly gone wrong. 

She clenched her fists; nothing at all came to mind. It had been a perfect paper in every way; the only option she could think of that even remotely made sense was that somebody had switched her essay with someone else’s, or had cast a rearrangement spell to turn her words to gibberish. But surely if something like  _ that _ had happened, McGonagall would have noticed. She would have known right away the paper wasn’t Hermione’s.

Unless Hermione wasn’t as brilliant as she’d always been told.

Unless her writing was indistinguishable from every other student’s; this thought chilled her to the bone, even worse than McGonagall’s initial statement of disappointment. But it couldn’t be true  — if that were true, it meant her entire life was a lie.

She had to find out for sure. She had to see that paper.

“Professor,” she said again. This time she was pleased to hear her voice come out stronger, though it was still obvious to anyone listening that she was on the cusp of tears. “I’d like to see my essay, please. I need to know what’s wrong with it before I go?”

Slowly, McGonagall looked up to meet her eyes. She looked worse than unimpressed; she looked downright disgusted.

“You will receive your essay when I hand them back to the rest of the class,” McGonagall said. “You may go now, Miss Granger.”

Hermione didn’t budge. She clenched her fists even harder, hoping that this small show of determination might help her feel more confident. It didn’t, really.

“I can’t even begin to improve,” she said through gritted teeth, “until I know what I’ve done wrong.”

Slowly, McGonagall sat up straight in her chair, looking down her nose at Hermione. The air between them was electric; Hermione’s heart thumped in her ears, screaming at her to back down, to keep quiet, to accept the grade and move on. But she couldn’t accept something like that; she just didn’t have it in her.

And she was a Gryffindor, damn it. Why  _ should _ she back down?

“I’ll do anything,” said Hermione, her voice low. “Anything at all, Professor, if you just let me see the essay.”

McGonagall’s fingers twitched, causing the feather on her quill to dip in the air. Her face was impassive, utterly unreadable.

“Anything,” she said. This wasn’t a question, Hermione noticed: it was a flat repetition.

“Yes,” Hermione said.

What happened next was not what she expected. She stood stock still as McGonagall stood and crossed the deck so that she loomed over Hermione, her eyes sharp and bright like a hawk’s.

“Take off your robes, Granger,” McGonagall said. 

Hermione’s brain stuttered; she couldn’t be sure she heard McGonagall right. She opened her mouth, ready to ask  — then saw the look in McGonagall’s eyes and knew she wasn’t wrong. 

She didn’t think it over for very long. With trembling hands, she undid her robes and let them fall to the floor. 

For the next part, McGonagall didn’t ask. She slid her hands up Hermione’s blouse, her palms cool against Hermione’s flushed skin. Hermione’s breath hitched and she jerked away by instinct, but she held as still as she could.

Allowing it to happen. Trying to pretend it wasn’t.

And then McGonagall’s long, dextrous fingers found her nipples, tweaking them just right  — and everything changed. 

“Oh,” Hermione gasped.

McGonagall’s lips found hers. “Yes,” she murmured.

And, pulling back, she pressed a scroll of parchment  — the ill-fated essay  — into Hermione’s hand.

“Do better next time, Miss Granger,” she said, resuming her seat behind her desk. Hermione stood there, stunned and bare-chested, with the essay in her hand. 

“I-I will,” she said. “Professor — ”

With just a hint of a smile on her lips, McGonagall said, “Dismissed.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long y'all. I got completely obsessed with a different fic but hey, better late than never lol

That night, Hermione cast a silencing spell around her bed curtains so the other girls wouldn’t hear her. She slipped a hand beneath the blanket, beneath the waistband of her panties. Normally when she did this, her mind was blank — she focused on the sensations of her thumb on her clit, her fingers stroking inside her.

But not tonight. Tonight, all she could think about was McGonagall’s cool hands caressing her bare stomach, those deft fingers inching toward her nipples. It was electrifying just to think about it; she’d never experienced anything like that with girls her own age. Just a simple touch, and it had almost sent her over the edge — how could anyone possibly be that skilled?

Her breath caught as she touched herself, cheeks flushed a light pink. Her hair stuck to her forehead with sweat. But when her climax came, it was too fast, too short — and entirely underwhelming.

Lying there, staring up at the ceiling and breathing heavily, she realized the truth: her own hands wouldn’t do.

She needed Professor McGonagall’s help. 

* * *

Transfiguration was agony the next day. Hermione took her usual seat at the front of the class, and for all intents and purposes she looked like her normal self  — attentive, thoughtful. But she didn’t raise her hand to answer any questions or make a few inquiries of her own. She knew if she did so, her voice would crack and give her away.

Instead, she spent the entire class period watching McGonagall. The way her hips moved beneath her robes  — the sharp cast to her eyes  — the graceful sweep of her neck. All of it combined together with the memory of their encounter made Hermione shift in her seat, licking her lips and trying not to blush. 

Near the end of class, McGonagall’s eyes met hers. A faint smile touched those thin, severe lips.

Oh, she knew  _ exactly _ what she was doing to Hermione.

The realization was equal parts humiliating and arousing. Hermione could feel moisture seeping into her panties beneath her robes; she clamped her thighs together, but that just amplified the pressure; her smooth skin rubbing against the wet fabric provided just the right amount of friction to make her want to moan. 

She only barely managed to hold back. Watching McGonagall  — only half-hearing anything the woman said  — Hermione slipped her wand out of her robes and held it loosely, casually in her hand, letting the shaft of it rest between her legs. She pressed the wood against her clit, above her robes, and shifted closer to it in her seat. 

She was concentrating hard on looking normal  — breathing evenly and slowly, cheeks not flushed  — when the class ended. Hermione only realized it was over because her classmates were putting their books away, everyone shuffling around and breaking into conversation before they even left the room. She looked around, dazed, searching for McGonagall without even really thinking about it —

And then she felt a brush of air against the back of her neck.

“Miss Granger,” said McGonagall’s voice close to her ear, her breath tickling Hermione’s exposed skin. “Stay after class.”

Hermione froze in her seat, the wand still pressed between her legs. She held very still as the classroom emptied. When the last straggling student had left the room, the heavy wooden door abruptly slammed closed, moving on its own.

The next moment, before Hermione had time to process anything, McGonagall pulled her chair out with a flick of her wand, sending Hermione sliding backward a full meter. She stifled a gasp, the shaft of wood between her legs suddenly exposed  — and then McGonagall’s hands were on her wrists, pushing her back in her seat. 

“You weren’t paying attention in class, I noticed,” McGonagall said. Her voice was soft, little more than a purr, and her eyes were glittering. Hermione found herself short of breath and wide-eyed and flushed, unable to respond. She shifted in her seat, trying belatedly to hide the wand, but McGonagall pressed up close to her, trapping the wand between them. 

It was pressed hard between her folds now, the friction almost painful. From the angle of it, it had to be pressing up against McGonagall, too -- but unlike Hermione, she showed no sign of noticing. Her head dipped, bringing her lips dangerously close to Hermione’s.

“What am I going to do with you?” she murmured. 

Hermione arched her back in response, baring her throat. She didn’t need to say anything; the next moment, McGonagall’s lips were on the exposed skin, sucking and biting her way down to the collar of Hermione’s robes. She undid them with her teeth  — or maybe with a quick, nonverbal spell; Hermione was too distracted to tell the difference  — and kept moving south, peeling back Hermione’s robes as she went.

She kept one hand on Hermione’s wrists, pinning them together above her head, keeping her immobile  — defenseless  — helpless.

Hermione had never enjoyed being helpless so much before.

She felt cold air kissing her skin where McGonagall’s tongue had been just seconds before. Her eyes were closed when she felt her blouse buttons coming undone, the shirt falling away from her naked breasts. A moment later, McGonagall’s tongue found Hermione’s nipple, her free hand coming up to circle the one she wasn’t sucking, and —

— and oh, God, Hermione had never felt anything like this with girls her age. She didn’t know if McGonagall was using magic or if she was simply more experienced, more skilled  — and she didn’t care. Not if it felt this good. She heard herself making breathy moans, each sound embarrassingly loud in the spacious, empty classroom, but she was so aroused she couldn’t possibly be embarrassed. 

That warm, wet tongue against her nipple  — the way it pushed and laved and teased at her most sensitive spot  — the fingers on her other nipple, first soft and light, the touch barely there, and then harder, twisting, pinching —

Hermione’s hips bucked, pressing her closer to McGonagall. Her skirt had ridden up to her waist, exposing the wet spot on her panties, the wand trapped between her thighs. There was a slight flush to McGonagall’s cheeks now  — a gleam in her eye that she was appreciating the view as much as Hermione was appreciating —

Well, everything. Every touch, every kiss, every electric spark. 

“Please…” Hermione moaned.

McGonagall’s fingers clasped her chin, forcing Hermione to sit up and look her straight in the eye.

“You want to finish?” McGonagall asked. Her voice was still the crisp, clipped voice of a schoolteacher.

“Yes,” Hermione gasped. “Yes, I--”

She was silenced by a rough kiss, her teeth clashing painfully with McGonagall’s. She inhaled sharply, surprised by the sudden move, and in that moment McGonagall slipped her tongue inside Hermione’s mouth with a matter-of-fact ruthlessness that left her weak. Before Hermione could acclimate, McGonagall’s tongue flexed upward, brushing the roof of her mouth  — an area so sensitive that Hermione moaned into the kiss, positively melting into her chair. 

And then the kiss was over, and it took her a moment to realize McGonagall’s fingers were on the waistband of Hermione’s panties, deftly pulling them down her thighs. With a shaky sigh, Hermione lifted her hips to help; the wand slipped, rolled off the chair and onto the floor, forgotten by both of them.

Part of Hermione wanted to ask for it back, wanted to demand that McGonagall use it on her, that she use the blunt, round handle to circle Hermione’s hole, that she fuck her with it. But before she could get a word out, McGonagall had sunk to her knees in front of Hermione, and she knew she was in for an entirely different treat.

McGonagall didn’t explain anything. She didn’t ask for consent; she certainly didn’t check if Hermione was alright or if she’d ever done this before. Without hesitation, without preamble, she edged two fingers into Hermione’s hole and leaned forward, sweeping tongue between Hermione’s folds.

And that, Hermione reflected, was just the way she liked it.

She felt McGonagall’s tongue exploring every inch of her  — caressing over the sensitive skin of her labia, just barely brushing up against Hermione’s clit, lapping up the moisture seeping out from her hole. McGonagall’s fingers flexed inside her, curling upward, touching parts of Hermione that had never been touched before, not even when she took care of herself.

It was so intoxicating that Hermione couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. She heard herself gasping and moaning distantly, too overwhelmed by the sensations of McGonagall’s tongue on her clit and fingers in her cunt to really process anything that was going on. She felt her abdominal muscles trembling, her thighs shaking, tension building between her legs. 

And then McGonagall’s fingers pushed deeper inside her  — and her tongue pressed directly against Hermione’s clit  — and the entire room seemed to burn away in an electric flash.

When Hermione’s vision came back  — slowly, gradually  — she was still sitting in her chair a meter away from the desk. Her blouse was undone, leaving her breasts exposed to the air, pink bite marks slowly turning into bruises. Her panties were down, giving her a full view of the hickeys on her thighs.

And McGonagall, composed as ever, was sitting at her own desk on the other side of the room.

Grading papers.

“Dismissed, Miss Granger,” she said. 


End file.
